It’s cold as we walk through the tunnel to the plane entrance, and the freezing air comes as quite a shock after the warmth of the departure lounge. A dusting of snow lies on the ground and I’m glad of my big winter coat and chunky boots, my bargain buys from TKMaxx January sales.
In the cabin, all the overhead lockers are chock-a-block. It’s a full flight.
‘I can take that from you,’ says the air hostess in a thick Swedish accent, reaching for my case.
‘No, no. It’s fine. Thank you. I need to be able to see my case,’ I tell her firmly, not letting go of it.
‘There’s room further down the plane,’ she insists and tugs at it, but I don’t let go.
‘I can make room here,’ I say, and lift it up, shuffling other bags and thick coats along. I exhale with relief and peel off my padded coat, narrowly missing punching the man behind me in the eye, as we all squeeze out of the aisle and into our seats as quickly as possible. I sit down and exhale again. In amongst the tangle of limbs, coats and luggage, I can see a man pushing my case along the overhead locker in order to cram his own bag in.
I feel myself tense, watching it being moved further down the plane.
‘Excuse me, I need to see my case.’ I go to unbuckle my seat belt and stand, but the air hostess is beside me.
‘Please remain seated and with your seat belt on,’ she says firmly.
The overhead lockers are being closed and everyone is ready to leave. I give my case one last stare, imprinting its location firmly in my mind as she shuts the locker. I know exactly where it is. The man who shifted my bag to make room for his own sits down a few rows ahead of me and pulls off his grey beanie, revealing a mass of blond curls with flecks of red running through them.
I tip my head back and find myself shutting my eyes as the little plane starts to roll forward, and then, with a ping to tell the cabin crew to take their seats, suddenly shoots down the runway and flings itself into the air like a stone from a catapult. I grip the armrests, keeping my eyes shut, hoping I’m not clutching my neighbour’s forearm like that time in Skiathos. This bit of the job I don’t like; everything else I love, but the going up and coming down and any bumpy bits in the middle I could do without. I open my eyes briefly, catching a glimpse of the city lights we’re leaving behind and the comfort they bring me, then shut them again. I keep them shut for a while, turning down the free tea and coffee. I briefly look out of the window but I can’t see a thing, just cloud. The early start from just outside Cardiff for the 6.30 flight from Heathrow is suddenly catching up with me, and I feel my eyes getting heavy.
I’m dozing when I’m suddenly woken by another ping on the tannoy. ‘Welcome to Kiruna,’ says the co-pilot, ‘where it’s a cool minus ten.’ Minus ten! I shiver and make a mental note to put that in my travel log as soon as I can get to my bag.
The plane trundles to its parking place and finally comes to a halt. I look out of the window. Big snow indeed! Everything is white, from the runway to the trees in the far distance. A whole load of open empty space. I freeze, really not wanting to go out there. But the flurry of movement from other passengers pulls me back to reality. The curly-haired guy has his coat and hat on; he has already retrieved his bag from the overhead locker by the looks of it and is halfway down the aisle, practically sprinting to the exit. I jump to my feet, a little bubble of panic suddenly rising as I try and locate my bag and can’t see it. Then I let out a huge sigh of relief.
‘That’s mine!’ I call, as I spot an older man pushing it back into an overhead locker much further down the plane; it must have fallen out when the lockers were opened. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I say, trying to squeeze my way towards it. But I can’t. I’m stuck, other passengers in big coats blocking my path, and I just have to wait my turn.
The guy in the grey beanie is long gone by the time I reach my bag and pull it out of the locker, keeping moving all the time. At the door, I bid the air crew goodbye and am hit by a blast of arctic air, stinging my face and making me wince. ‘Welcome to Kiruna,’ I repeat the co-pilot’s welcome. It certainly feels like minus ten as I grab the handrail and make my way carefully down the steps, clutching my bag whilst watching my feet at the same time.
Snow is falling all around me as I crunch, slip and slide my way across the tarmac to the small terminal building, wondering if my chunky boots are actually going to be substantial enough. I look around and spot a board with my name on it, held by a female taxi driver. The woman, who has very little English, smiles and takes my case from me and stows it in the boot of the car, whilst I put my passport away in my little bag, which I’ve hidden under my coat.
As we drive away from the airport, I see a sign: Dog sledge parking. They can’t be serious! I think. And then I see them, a whole team of husky-type dogs attached to a sled, jumping and barking as a group of grinning tourists heads towards them. I shiver. You’d never get me on one of those. I just couldn’t be that close to all those barking dogs. And I shiver again.
I feel like I’ve stepped into Narnia as the car pulls out onto the road, which has been cleared of snow but is banked either side with the thick white stuff. It’s dark, like a winter’s evening, and yet it’s only two o’clock in the afternoon. The woman drives off at speed and I grip the door handle in terror and shut my eyes when another car passes us closely. Once again, heading even further north, I’m leaving the lights of civilisation behind. It feels like I’m being pushed ever deeper into the cold wilderness.
I hold my arms to my chest and let myself fall backwards onto the soft bed, allowing the thick duvet to envelop me. Wrapped in a big fluffy white towel, my skin is tingling from the hot shower. They certainly know how to do warmth and luxury here at the Tallfors Hotel. I look around at the plush purple wallpaper and silver lamps, though I’m not sure about the reindeer hide draped over the chaise longue. There’s a wall of mirrors above a glass dressing table, with shelves either side of it holding beautiful crystal glasses and a small fridge below. I won’t even have to leave my hotel room! Just deliver the rings to the manager to put in the safe and then hole up here for the night with room service and a drink or two from the minibar.
I stand up and walk to the window, pulling back the thick curtain a tad and looking out, wondering if I’ll see the famous Northern Lights. But all I can see is falling snow, like someone shaking a pot of glitter outside my window. It’s still only the middle of the afternoon.
I can just make out a glass conservatory at the back of the building. All the rooms are on the ground floor, like a big bungalow, and there are some cabins outside in rows, with bright lights over the red front doors, the little roofs thick with snow. Someone is shovelling snow with a big plastic scoop, and once again the thought of it makes me feel cold to the bone. I really am much happier inside, where it’s lovely and warm.
I reach for my handbag, pull out my phone and photograph the falling snow and the icicles hanging over my window frame. Then I step away from the window, pulling my fluffy towel tighter around me, and take a picture of the room, smiling as I think about printing the photos to go in my travel log. I think about the next leg of this trip. Back to Stockholm tomorrow, to the buzz of the city and all the places and excursions I’m looking forward to: the Abba museum, the old town and the city hall; a boat trip and a night-time ghost walk.
I pick up my case and put it on the bed, the corner of my travel log protruding reassuringly from the front pocket. I notice a scuff underneath it I haven’t seen before and run my finger along it. Then I realise my luggage label is missing. It came out of a Christmas cracker – no, really, it did! Griff insisted we swap and he had the puzzle instead. He wanted me to have the label as the first step towards getting to see all the places on our bucket list, just as soon as he finished in the army. It must have come off in all that chaos and my case falling to the floor. Oh, I think sadly. I’ll contact the airline and complain. And I must write about this place, out in the middle of nowhere; about my taxi ride here, and the snow and the dark.
I can’t imagine who’d want to holiday here, let alone have their wedding here, like the couple I’m delivering the rings for. It’s as far away from my own wedding as you can get. Griff and I had the full works. Me, my sister Sara and Mum made what we could – invitations and place cards, wedding favours and the buttonholes for the men. We’d used all our money for a deposit on our four-bed house on the new housing estate near Mum and my stepdad and Sara and her family. All ready to move into after our wedding and when Griff got back off tour of duty. But it was a still a brilliant day. Griff and his mates were in uniform and we had a registry office service and then a big bash at the pub where Mum worked.
I wore Sara’s dress that my mum altered. She’s always been brilliant with a needle and thread; she’s had to be. My dad left when I was just eight and that was that. He moved in with someone else, remarried and became Dad to her little girl. Every night I’d go to bed wishing, praying that I’d wake up and he’d be home and things would be like they used to be. But he never did come home. Very quickly contact of any kind stopped. I think it may have been the guilt. But I couldn’t understand how someone you loved that much could leave you, just like that. Love is precious, and you have to hang onto it when you find it.
For a few years it was just Mum and us girls. She had two jobs, working at the school as a dinner lady and cleaner in the daytime, and behind the bar at the pub at the end of the road in the evenings, which is where she met Bryn, my stepdad. Bryn’s great. He slotted into the family really well, like he’d always been there. But something inside me never lets me forget that he’s not my dad. My dad left. My sister Sara lives on the same road as my mum and Bryn, with her husband and three boys.
I decide to have a drink before opening my case, to settle my thoughts before I write about my taxi ride from the airport. Don’t want my tale to be full of doom and gloom. I like to keep these thoughts happy, just as if I was on the phone to Griff, telling him all about my adventures.
I turn to the minibar and look at the list, and then check and double-check the prices, my eyeballs nearly popping out of my head. Just the one drink, I think. I knew it would be expensive, but wow! I open the little fridge and take out a bottle of cold beer, expertly flip off the lid with the bottle opener and take a long draught. There’s a menu there for room service as well. I read it and take a deep breath at the prices. I think the soup might be the best option. I may be relatively okay for money, but I can’t afford to go around wasting it like I’m sitting on a fortune. I need to budget for the trip to Stockholm that I’ve added to my work visit. I love to visit new places, and as long as I’m careful with money, I can keep doing it, delivering my clients’ goods and then staying on for a few days.
My phone pings with messages on the family WhatsApp, asking if I’ve arrived safely and when I’ll be home. They always want to know when I’m due back, but usually I try and work it so I have a new job lined up pretty much as soon as I get home. If I keep to my schedule, I can get my washing done, repack and be out of the door again within twenty-four hours. It does me good to keep moving instead of moping at home when Griff’s not there. I hate being in the house without him; it feels so empty, so different to his homecomings, when the place would fill with his big personality, his deep laugh bouncing off the newly painted walls.
All good, I tell them. A quick stopover at some remote place called Tallfors, which is about as far north as you can get in Sweden. Then back to Stockholm for a few days sightseeing before I’m home. Xx I always end with two kisses, one for my mum and one for my sister. Maybe I should start adding them for my nephews as well.
I smile and toss the phone on the bed. I’ll go to reception and hand over the rings to the wedding planner in the morning. I’ve messaged her and she’s on early shift all this week, so I’ll meet her before breakfast and then be on my way back to the airport. I like to hand the goods over to the right person, not leave them to be passed on by another member of staff. Which reminds me, better safe than sorry. I must put the rings in the room safe overnight. I take another sip of beer, then, bottle in one hand, unzip my case all the way round, hoping my belongings haven’t been too shaken up. The rings, I reassure myself, are in a well-padded box; they should be fine. But my dog-eared travel log may well have taken even more of a bashing, though that gives it character; the marks from the journey it’s been on for the last two years.
As I’m about to flip back the lid of the case, I realise that something isn’t right. It’s the smell that alerts me first of all. A smell that I don’t recognise. It’s not unpleasant or anything. It’s just . . . not my smell. Cautiously I lift the lid. The smell gets stronger. A mix of earthy eau de toilette and . . . woodsmoke. I open the lid all the way and look down at the contents of the case.
The clothes inside are all scrunched up, not folded and ironed like I was expecting to see. I don’t recall packing a black hoodie, and . . . my journal? I flip the lid back and yank open the pocket where my travel log should be. It’s been prodding me in the calf, reassuring me, letting me know it’s there all the way from the airport. I pull it out and catch my breath. It’s a book, but . . . it’s not my travel journal! I shove it back, breathing in short, shallow breaths. It’s not my journal! I repeat to myself, with a growing feeling of fear creeping up my neck, tightening around my throat, cutting off my air supply.
I open the lid again and look at the scrunched-up clothes in the case. If that’s not my journal . . . My mind freezes and my body follows. I pick up a garment in between forefinger and thumb and hold it up. The smell of woodsmoke and men’s eau de toilette is even stronger now. If that’s not my journal and these aren’t my clothes . . . I can barely bring myself to process the information . . . then this isn’t my bag. And if this isn’t my bag . . .
Freezing-cold goose bumps travel up and over my body like an invading army. Where is my bag? screams a voice in my head. And where are the rings I’m supposed to be handing over?! I reel backwards from the earthy, woody, pine-smelling clothes, and as I do, the bottle slips from my hand, landing on the tiled floor with a crack, shattering into pieces . . . just like my world.
I get dressed in the clothes I took off earlier, stumbling in my haste, putting two legs into one hole and trying to avoid the broken glass and spilt lager. I have to find my bag; whatever it takes, I have to find it.